Here is My Family
by carolina88
Summary: Mrs. Everdeen's reflections during her catatonic, depressed state after losing her husband. The night Katniss gets the bread from Peeta.
1. Chapter 1

As easy as it is, it isn't.

It's easy for me to sit in my rocking chair and stare out the window, judgmentally watching the workers slump by on their way to the mines.

_Was it you who left him? _

Their eyes drift to my house, only to turn away in fear from the woman in the window. She haunts all of their dreams, she shouldn't have reign over them during the daytime too.

_Or maybe you?_

A child approaches me and softly pats my worn hands. With a brave, small voice, she speaks to me. I can't tell what she wants, but her eyes look pleading. Her blonde hair is frazzled and splits at the ends. No sound comes from her voice.

I look back to the window and shrug off her bony fingers.

"Come here, Prim." That, I can hear. It's the only thing I ever hear. The brown hair and grey eyes make it impossible to ignore, impossible to forget who she resembles.

I close my eyes and see nothing. A world where there are no needy children to make me feel. Nothing, apart from her voice. It's inescapable.

"She won't listen to you." I wait in the silence, then check to make sure the small girl has left my side. When I open my eyes, she has moved over near the fireplace, near the one with his hair, who throws mint leaves in a pot to boil.

I scoff. It's not real food, they're just fooling themselves. It won't stop the hunger we all feel. She responds with a glare so strong that I have to look away, back out the window.

This time my eyes meet someone that I wish they hadn't. Under the shade of the Bakery canopy are the eyes of a man I once knew. They look back at me from across the street, searching, probing.

_Intrusive_, I call it; though I know it's nothing more than sympathy.

His eyes tell me he remembers – growing up, every blush, every whispered promise – and I wish with all my might that he didn't. I don't want any evidence of that time to exist. As far as I'm concerned, I've never existed apart from right now, here in this chair.

He hesitates, and I'm afraid he might come up to the door, but he stops, and as if settling an argument with himself, nods his head, walking back towards the bakery. His youngest son trails behind him, stopping once to look back towards my house himself, and with a frown, turns and follows his father.

_Crash!_ The loud noise violently jolts me out of my stupor, and I spin around to find its source. My eyes meet hers, and for a moment, I falter. My guard is down, and I remember. I did exist outside this moment. I had a life.

In my mind, I see the eyes of my husband. I see the man to whom I entrusted my entire life, whose voice made the birds fall silent, who is…was…a father to my…_children_. I have to force that word back deep down. I'm not strong enough for that kind of emotion. The fleeting image of my lost partner fades back into oblivion.

I take this time to look at them – really look at them. They don't look familiar. Their skin stretches over the planes of their faces, and their arms hang limply at their sides. Primrose sits on the wooden floor next to the fire, holding her feet to warm them. Her eyes don't rise to meet mine. Instead they trail off towards the heat of the fire, evading my gaze.

She looks at me though. Katniss. Her name singes me with the guilt of neglect. My mouth opens slightly, maybe to mumble an apology, maybe to say her name. Instead nothing comes out, and I sit there with my mouth agape until I realize she is shouting at me.

My eyes slowly trail to the floor, and they find the broken pieces of a vase I once loved littered on the floor. _Glass, _I think. _Sharp. _My healer's nature tells me the shards I see scattered around my children's feet are dangerous. _Too dangerous_.

_Be careful_. I realize my thoughts are too late when I see two drops of blood ooze from between where Prim holds her feet, trying to hide her injury. Katniss doesn't appear to have noticed yet. I don't have to wonder why, because when I look back up at her, she is still screaming at me. Her face resembles a sunset.

Her words drift in and out of meaning – "Not here…not a mother…left us…selfish…"

What I do catch stings, if only for a moment. The pain is still enough to cause my breath to catch in my throat. _Too much. Too dangerous. _

Then there is silence. She stands in front of me with her mouth open, catching her breath lost from screaming, and turns, avoiding the glass, to the dresser where she grabs something. She heads towards the door.

_It's cold outside, _I try to tell her. She opens the door and stares out into the misty air that's swirling into a drizzle. On a second thought, she grabs…_her father's_…hunting jacket and boots, and leaves, slamming the door behind her.

With her gone, I relax. My hearing slowly comes back, heightening to normal.

I wish it hadn't. I can hear Prim, who still clings to her bloody feet, whimpering by the fire, surrounded by blue glass that catches the reflection of the flames. Slowly, unsurely, she brings her hands to her sides and wipes them on her dress, leaving streaks of red down her pearl colored nightgown.

She is unaware that she is being watched until she looks around, possibly for a safe place to stand, and sees me. Her head cowers in shame and her lower lip trembles. _She's frightened of me_, I think with a sickening feeling, but it doesn't seem right. _She's ashamed of me. _It makes more sense.

With a deep groan, I lift myself up from the creaky rocking chair, which wobbles unsteadily beneath my grasp. Her eyes shoot open in disbelief and fear, though whether it's of me or for me I don't know.

It takes all the strength I can muster, but I make my way over towards my trembling child, carefully avoiding the broken glass. She remains on the floor below me, head down, refusing to look up. I begin to cry.

Her head snaps up in shock, and I can see it on her face that she is in disbelief. This is the first notion I've given that I am still mentally or emotionally present. With the comfort of a child, she deliberately reaches up her hand and pats my knee, her hand hesitant but firm.

I bend down and pick up my baby.

She curls into my arms like a small child, her bloody feet staining my sides.

I stroke her hair, and because I can't seem to be able to form the words I want to, I begin to hum. Softly at first, and without a direct melody. But it becomes something stronger, something I've heard before. It's a comforting song, one you would sing to a child to help them fall to sleep.

Prim begins to fill in the words with her tender voice. She shakes as she sings, and I can feel her tears soak through my tattered blouse. With a shaky breath, she finishes her song. "Here is the place where I love you."

_Here is the place where I love you. Here is where I can be happy. I can be happy. _

I look down at my daughter and manage to croak out, "I'm happy."

Her smile reflects the one spread wide on my face, and I know that for now, it's enough.

I've already cleaned up the broken glass and stitched up Prim's cuts when Katniss returned, carrying with her the most glorious aroma.

When she set the bread on the table, Prim lunged at it, ignoring her injuries. Her new mother stepped in, though, holding her hand back, telling her to sit down at the table. Her eyes found mine, silently telling me, as my caretaker, to do the same.

Sitting around our faded, wooden table, was my family. We ate, silently together.


	2. Chapter 2

_I had originally planned for this to be a one-shot from Mrs. Everdeen's POV, but I've decided to add this on as a separate but similar one-shot. Takes place during the 74__th__ Hunger Games. Thanks for reading!_

I can't decide what's worse – knowing that she may die, or knowing that, if she survives, who she will become.

Prim is very encouraging. Every day she reminds me how strong Katniss is, how brave she is, how smart she is, how she's such a skilled hunter. She brushes my hair and coos calming, soft words; but it only soothes half of me. I nod my head appreciatively and give her my best attempt at a smile. The other half of me wallows in fear and self-loathing until I can't remember where I am or why I'm here.

Whenever Prim finds me like this – curled in my rocking chair with my knees to my chest, my face buried in my hands – I know how weak I am. My child coaxes me over to my bed, where I fall asleep to her reassuring voice. "She's coming home. She'll be here soon." She hums a lullaby and I succumb to sleep.

She's scared for me, though she tries to hide it. She thinks I don't notice the flash of shock in her eyes every time she finds me standing alone, staring out the window. Or at the ground. It doesn't matter; I see the same things everywhere. Mostly coal and dust, and silent, helpless mockingjays. And Katniss. She's always at the forefront of my nightmares.

The first time I saw her, _really _saw her on the television, I laughed. She was twirling for Caesar Flickerman. It was beautiful…the dress, her makeup, most of all her smile. But it wasn't her.

This wasn't the stubborn child who'd kicked me so hard from inside my womb that I was put on bed rest for the last three months of my pregnancy. This wasn't my daughter whom I'd raised from infancy…that is, of course, until we switched roles…and she became my caretaker. I stop laughing when I remember that.

Prim looks at me like I've gone completely mad, then realizes her mistake and fixes her face into a tranquil smile and turns off the TV, telling me to, "head on to bed. It's getting late." She thinks I can't function on my own, so I oblige to prove her wrong, letting her tuck me in and sing me to sleep until I am brave enough to allow myself to relax.

When I'm feeling especially rebellious, I cook. Nothing fancy, just enough to show Prim that I can handle myself. She always finds a way to downgrade my actions, though – mopping up my spilled juice, reminding me which drawer the utensils are kept in. It doesn't make me mad, not at all. My sweet Prim is the only one who has never left me.

It makes me sad. It makes me dependent.

"She's coming home soon," she reminds me when I have my bouts of relapse. This only confuses me. Is there any _good_ possible outcome of this? Is there any type of life that would be worth living after her return? _Maybe she won't return_, I reassure myself. This realization only causes the nausea to roll back in.

I feel like I'm being force fed by the Capitol. I picture someone taping back my eyelids, making my witness my child's slow and tragic end. In reality, they are. There is no escape from watching her unjust, untimely demise.

Only in my dreams, which consist of nothing, do I escape. I don't mean I don't have dreams - I can't sleep without them. But in them, there is nothing. No sound, no light, no senses, apart from touch. I can feel my hands clasp together in my lap as I sit on the ground. It's comforting.

Prim updates me on how many tributes are left, one thing I don't need her to tell me, since I see it on the TV myself, but I let her. I think she's concluded that I don't really _see_ any of the games when I watch it. But I see everything. And I mean everything.

I see what Katniss doesn't. That her "star crossed lover" isn't pretending, that the other tributes are afraid of her, that she really does have a chance.

I still don't know how to feel about this. Again, I am split down the middle. Half of me cheers for her with all the strength my vocal chords contain.

Half of me wishes she would hurry up and get it over with, so I don't have to watch anymore, so she doesn't come back broken. Different. I think that would be the end for me.

I am a hopeless cause. I am heartless. I am a mother forced to wish for a quick death to end her child's life.

"She'll be home soon," Prim reminds me. I nod, torn between smiling and crying.

_Oh my goodness, I almost can't stand how depressing this is, but then again, what else have we ever seen from Mrs. Everdeen? At least up until this point, nothing but sad melodrama. _

_Anyway, this is probably the last of the Mrs. Everdeen ramblings I will write. I think I'd like to try something happy, so look for a new story from me soon. I promise it will not be horribly sad like this!_


End file.
